


not so simple

by astrolesbian



Series: inked amis [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, seriously tons of pining, this is a huge shot of fluff tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4694384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrolesbian/pseuds/astrolesbian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Except, when he made his excellent plan to get them together (as if he was ever <i>actually</i> going to pick Grantaire up from his tattoo sessions, and it was frankly an amateur mistake to believe that) he hadn’t considered the ramifications of it. Namely, that it would mean Enjolras and Grantaire had gotten their shit together before Courfeyrac, who was arguably less oblivious and much more charming, did. </p><p>(And it also means that he and Combeferre are now alone together much, much more than they were before. And Combeferre is slowly working his way towards full tattoo sleeves. And Courfeyrac is slowly dying, as a direct result of both.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	not so simple

Courfeyrac is on the couch, upside down and watching The Princess Diaries, when he realizes that Enjolras hasn’t been home in two days. ****

“Holy shit,” he says, but since both Combeferre and Enjolras are out, there is no one to hear him. He takes a minute to consider it, staring at the ceiling instead of at the screen (where Mia is riding in a boat with the douchebag pretty-boy who is probably going to end up using her), before giving into the urge to _tell_ someone about it.

So he calls Combeferre, and tries to ignore how his first instinct in any given situation is to tell Combeferre about it somehow.

“Enjolras hasn’t been home in two days,” he says, and Combeferre makes a soft, amused noise under his breath.

“Really,” he says. “Well.”

“It’s finally happening,” Courfeyrac announces. “He’s left the nest. Oh, god, what am I going to do?”

“Don’t be the parent that turns his room into a shrine,” Combeferre warns, and Courfeyrac can hear the way he’s biting back a smile when he talks, even though the phone. 

“I’m very offended that you would think that of me,” Courfeyrac informs him. The door clicks open, and Courfeyrac gasps. “Oh, he’s home!”

“Yes?” Enjolras says, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, I can’t believe it, Ferre,” Courfeyrac continues, and he thinks he might hear Combeferre laughing, which is the best sort of encouragement. “My little boy is all grown up and staying the night at his boyfriend’s house—”

“Oh, _please,_ ” Enjolras scoffs, and goes into the kitchen, trying to hide the way his neck has gone bright red. “I just fell asleep, it’s no big deal—”

“One of us is going to have to give him the talk,” Combeferre says dryly, and Courfeyrac breaks into snorting and unattractive laughter. 

“Well,” he says, through his giggles. “It ought to be you, you’re the doctor.”

“I’m _twenty three,_ ” Enjolras says. “Please stop.”

“I need have a talk with R about his intentions, don’t I?” Courfeyrac continues, and Combeferre laughs again, muffled into his hand. 

“I’m in the library,” he says, “stop.”

“I can’t, Enj is blushing, it’s hilarious,” Courfeyrac says, still snickering. “Enjolras, invite your boyfriend over to dinner, I need to meet him and intimidate him—”

“First of all, you’ve known him for three years, second of all, you couldn’t intimidate a five-year-old, third of all, the idea of the parents and more specifically the _father_ intimidating their child’s romantic partners to make sure they are quote unquote _worthy_ of being in a relationship with said child is a patriarchal idea designed to make it seem as though it was really the _father_ making the decision of who the child would date instead of allowing the child to decide for themselves,” Enjolras says, almost all in one breath. “Also, I’m twenty three and I can make my own decisions, and you both love R.”

“He’s making the face he always makes when he’s won a argument,” Courfeyrac tells Combeferre, who makes an understanding noise. 

“Tell him we would never truly dream of ruining his relationship with R and that we are very happy for him,” Combeferre says, “and that he needs to clean his room, or no dessert tonight.”

Courfeyrac snorts with laughter for a full minute and relays the message. Enjolras throws up his hands and vanishes into his room.

“Is there going to _be_ actual dessert tonight?” Courfeyrac asks. 

“That depends,” Combeferre says. “Are you making dinner?”

“If you can pick up some—ah, shit,” Courfeyrac says, and stumbles off the couch to check the fridge. He thinks he remembers shopping, sometime, but he has a sneaking suspicion that all he bought was brownie bites and iced tea, which is usually what happens if Courfeyrac is left to do the shopping alone. He cooks, but he does not shop. A quick look in the fridge confirms his suspicions. “I dunno, what do you want me to make? We don’t have much.”

“Then I’ll pick up pizza,” Combeferre says, dryly. “And cinnamon breadsticks. Enjolras loves those.”

“You are an angel,” Courfeyrac tells him. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Mm,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac can hear his smile again as he hangs up. 

He resists the urge to press his phone to his chest and sigh in his most lovestruck manner, and is quite proud of himself for doing so. The feeling vanishes when Enjolras collapses onto the couch next to him.

“Have you told him yet?” Enjolras asks, extremely casually, as if he is asking if Courf remembered to do his laundry yesterday (which he thinks he might have forgotten. Shit.)

“Kindly fuck off,” Courfeyrac answers, just as casually. “I’ll do it. Sometime. Eventually. When we’re eighty, maybe.”

Enjolras’s teasing smile flattens into a frown, one of his particularly thoughtful ones. “You’ll be happier, once you tell. You do know that.” 

“I don’t see how I’ll be happier once I’ve been rejected,” Courfeyrac mutters, low enough that Enjolras can’t hear him. Judging by the scowl on his face, though, he’s guessed what has been said.

Enjolras lets it go, though, for once, and doesn’t try any harder to convince Courfeyrac to confess his feelings, and Courfeyrac relaxes against his side with a sigh.

“Why _were_ you at R’s all night?” he asks, and watches with delight as a blush shoot’s up Enjolras’s neck to his ears.

“We were watching Star Wars,” he says, which is really not clarifying anything, at all.

“And?”

“I fell asleep.”

“You _fell asleep?_ During _Star Wars?”_

“He had that reaction, too,” Enjolras admits. “Something about ‘not appreciating the classics’.”

Courfeyrac can _hear_ the smile in Enjolras’s voice. It’s a lovesick, smitten sort of smile. Courf tries to ignore the spark of annoyance it creates in his stomach, as he is very happy for both Enjolras and Grantaire, because they are both his dear friends and they have been dancing around this for longer than he thinks either of them have actually recognized. (The better part of two years, not that Courfeyrac was counting.)

Except, when he made his excellent plan to get them together (as if he was ever _actually_ going to pick Grantaire up from his tattoo sessions, and it was frankly an amateur mistake to believe that) he hadn’t considered the ramifications of it. Namely, that it would mean Enjolras and Grantaire had gotten their shit together before Courfeyrac, who was arguably less oblivious and much more charming, did. 

(And it also means that he and Combeferre are now alone together much, much more than they were before. And Combeferre is slowly working his way towards full tattoo sleeves. And Courfeyrac is slowly dying, as a direct result of both.)

But none of this is strictly Enjolras’s fault, and Courfeyrac is more annoyed with himself for wanting to complain about Enjolras being happy than he is annoyed with Enjolras himself anyway. So.

“You’ve never appreciated the classics,” Courfeyrac tells him. “Why start now?”

Enjolras laughs, and switches the channel to the news. Courfeyrac grumbles, but lets him.

-

The thing about being in love with Combeferre is that the whole thing is just not very simple, which is the main reason it’s so frustrating, because Combeferre—

Combeferre has always been the simplest thing in Courfeyrac’s life, which sounds bad when you say it out loud, but really it’s wonderful. Courfeyrac’s life is a wild mess, and he remembers going through high school always talking too loud and always too twitchy and never, ever understanding why he couldn’t be normal. And then he’d met Enjolras in college, and through him, Combeferre, and Combeferre had been _stable,_ calm and quiet and warm, and he’d bought Courfeyrac a spinner ring for Christmas, and Courfeyrac had never had a support system before, not one that didn’t make him feel bad for needing it. 

Enjolras might be a whirlwind, and God, does Courfeyrac love him for it, but there’s only so much the world can take of two wild messes right next to each other, and that’s where Combeferre comes it; something they can both hold onto. Combeferre is the single calmest person Courfeyrac has ever met, and it makes everything easier. And he’s so _good—_ always making them eat and sleep and not minding when Courfeyrac falls asleep on his shoulder during movie night. Not to mention how _beautiful_ he is, and really, if Courfeyrac wasn’t completely in love the moment they met, he certainly is now.

But the thing about things being so simple before is that they don’t feel so simple now. It used to be Courfeyrac writing him dumb sticky notes and putting them in the books he’s reading, and the two of them cuddling on the couch while watching movies, and the two of them knowing each other’s coffee orders, and countless other couple-y things. And now all of that is still true, but there’s another layer underneath, one that makes Courfeyrac stupidly twitchy. Because Courfeyrac desperately _wishes_ that they actually _were_ a couple, and Combeferre has never indicated anything of the sort. And Courfeyrac has been _watching,_ okay. 

And while adding kissing to their list of couple-y things would be incredible, it’s not very likely. And Courfeyrac isn’t—he doesn’t exactly feel the need to push the subject, at risk of upsetting this delicate balance that they already have, because even if he hasn’t been on a date in two months, he has his movies and coffee stops with Combeferre, and that’s better.

(And okay, maybe Courfeyrac really, really wishes he could call them dates. But there’s no way to date Combeferre, not without making it A Thing. He can’t do casual here. It would already _mean_ too much. And if it fucked up then they would never speak again, and Courfeyrac doesn’t really know if he’s equipped to handle life without Combeferre, as ridiculous as it might sound.)

(This is probably a gross exaggeration, but Courfeyrac is prone to those.)

Also, Combeferre probably does not like him back. 

So there’s that.

-

“Ferre,” Courfeyrac calls, from across the room, when he walks into the meeting that afternoon. “Your mother called.”

“Please tell me you didn’t spend a half an hour talking to her again,” Combeferre says, but he can feel the fondness creeping into his voice, even as he tries to narrow his eyes. “I have limited minutes.”

“No, we switched to the house phone,” Courfeyrac says, and then snorts. “And you need to update your plan, who has limited minutes these days?”

“Me,” Combeferre says dryly, and Courfeyrac looks as though he is about to answer when he suddenly stops, eyes fixed on the bend of Combeferre’s elbow, near where his sleeve is rolled up.

“Is that the new one, then?” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras looks up from whatever he was doing, eyes interested. 

“Oh,” Combeferre says, and pushes his sleeve up a little higher so they can see.

“Good lord,” Grantaire, coming out of nowhere, says. “Is that a _chemical_ _formula?_ ”

Combeferre raises his eyebrows, electing not to answer—it’s obvious that it is, indeed, a chemical formula. 

“You’re the biggest nerd I’ve ever met,” Grantaire informs him cheerfully. “Also, Flo couldn’t make it tonight, she told me to give you this.” He tosses Combeferre a folded up piece of paper. “Design for the moth one, which, now that I think about it, may actually be the nerdier of the two.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre says. Grantaire grins, and leans over, kissing Enjolras’s temple in greeting. Enjolras flushes, but grins back at him, pleased.

Courfeyrac does an eyebrow thing—Courfeyrac has many different versions of the eyebrow thing, but this is the one that means _I’m not going to actually say anything but holy shit they are SO CUTE—_ and Combeferre elbows him in the side. Courfeyrac just elbows him back, and they sit there, elbowing each other and trying to contain giggles, until the meeting starts; Courfeyrac biting his lip almost hard enough to break the skin as he tries not to laugh.

When the meeting does start, though, Courfeyrac stops elbowing Combeferre and started tapping out a pattern on the tabletop instead. Courfeyrac was always in motion. Combeferre had never really asked about it—he knew enough about ADHD to recognize the wheres and the whys of it all—but Courfeyrac had told him once anyway that it was just easier to focus on one thing if he was doing something else at the same time. Normally, Courf’s focus was on a million different things at once, and he was always fidgeting, always twisting his spinner ring or braiding Cosette’s hair or pacing. Movements like that helped him keep his focus on Enjolras’s voice, and stopped him from seeking out other voices in the room, from being distracted. Now, he’s tapping, and listening, and tapping, and listening, an expression of intense focus on his face.

Combeferre runs a hand through Courfeyrac’s hair, which he knows also helps, sometimes, and starts on his minutes. He doesn’t miss the smile Courfeyrac shoots at him, though, and feels his own mouth curl up in an answer.

-

“You’re being very quiet,” Combeferre says, on the way home. Courfeyrac has been staring thoughtfully, and his movements have been minimal, only the small twist on his spinner ring once in a while. He only does this when he is very, very deep in thought about something, and Combeferre sort of hates to interrupt, but he can’t help it. He’s curious, aching to know what Courfeyrac is thinking about. “What’s up?”

“I just—” Courfeyrac says, and then chuckles to himself and looks away. “Never mind.”

“Tell me,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac bumps their shoulders together, still looking rather far away.

“Maybe sometime,” he says, and Combeferre wishes he was satisfied with that.

-

Being in love with Courfeyrac is a bit like loving the sun, and it’s a feeling that Combeferre has grown well used to, over the years.

The first time they met was at the Musain, when Enjolras had dragged Combeferre along to get coffee and meet his friend from class—Combeferre hadn’t been excited, at first, but then he’d seen Courfeyrac sitting at the table, watched as he’d leaped out of the chair with a beaming smile on his face to give Enjolras a hug and offer a hand to Combeferre, eyes bright. He’d never received such an enthusiastic greeting before, and it didn’t hurt that the man giving it was all curly hair and dimples and the warmest brown eyes Combeferre had ever seen.

(Enjolras gave him a _look,_ like he knew. Combeferre suspects Enjolras has always known.)

The circle that used to be Enjolras and Combeferre expanded almost in that one moment to allow Courfeyrac access, and Combeferre has spent the years since falling more and more hopelessly in love with him. He doesn’t know when it happened, and he barely remembers realizing—he just knows that one morning, he woke up and went into the kitchen and there was Courfeyrac, sitting on the kitchen counter, trying to make Enjolras laugh at seven in the morning before their first class, and it had been like a rush in his head and heart and stomach all at once, like a balloon popping, like sighing out _oh._

(He’s never said anything about it. Courfeyrac spends nights out with their friends and flirts and dates and spends nights away from the apartment, and Combeferre doesn’t say anything. It’s not his place, and it’s not his business, and they still watch movies together, and as cliche as it sounds, he doesn’t really need more than this.)

These past few weeks have been different in the sort of way that Combeferre doesn’t particularly want to examine (which is unusual: he examines everything). Enjolras has been Out, usually with Grantaire, and when he’s not home Combeferre and Courfeyrac are left with nothing to do besides hang out with each other, alone. By themselves. Combeferre is not too oblivious to admit that he’s thankful for the opportunity, but it’s come with the unfortunate side effect of making his quiet pining even worse.

-

“So you and Courf,” Grantaire says, sprawled in a chair at Floréal’s shop, sketchpad balanced on his knees. “You have to do something about that, man.”

Grantaire has very recently elected to start boxing again, and as a result he’s almost always got some kind of bruise or scrape. Right now it’s a black eye. No one mentions it, though. They’re all just glad he’s _doing_ things. 

“Do something,” Combeferre repeats, and takes a deep breath as the needle goes over a bone in his wrist.

“I mean,” Grantaire says, and waves a hand. “I did the whole unrequited thing for a long-ass time, you know? It is definitely not all it’s cracked up to be. Believe me. Plus, there’s literally no way he’s going to turn you down. It’s not like with me when he hated me for that stretch—”

“You’re exaggerating, he never hated you,” Combeferre says. “He only hates Donald Trump.”

“And transphobia,” Grantaire agrees. “And tons of other shit, but I digress. The point is, you and Courf are basically dating already, so you should just admit it to yourselves and get it over with, you know?”

“It’s not as easy as that,” Combeferre says. “It’s—very balanced, right now. I don’t want to ruin that.”

“Explain,” Floréal says, raising an eyebrow at him. Combeferre obliges, because she’s holding a tattoo gun and it’s pressed to his wrist. 

“He’s my best friend,” he says. “I don’t want that to end.” 

Grantaire snorts, and stands. “Okay, no offense, but if you think something like that will make Courfeyrac want to stop being friends with you, maybe you don’t know him as well as you think.”

Combeferre ignores him.

“Ask him out,” Floréal suggests.

“Good plan,” Grantaire says, and does finger guns at her. “Excellent plan.”

“Terrible plan,” Combeferre says, through gritted teeth, because the tattoo is actually starting to hurt.

“You have to ease him into it,” Grantaire says, nodding sagely, as if he’s some kind of expert on romance _._ “Take him out, but be super casual about it. Don’t mention that it’s a date. And then kiss him at the end.”

“Woo the boy,” Floréal says, and winks at him. “That’s what you have to do. You have to woo him.”

“You’re having too much fun with this,” Combeferre says, but he can’t manage to sound as exasperated as he wants to. He doesn’t want to admit it, but maybe it—maybe it wouldn’t hurt.

“Hypothetically,” he says. “How would I woo him?”

“Take off your shirt and sit around,” Grantaire says, wisely. “Eventually he’ll get so overwhelmed with how hot he thinks you are that he’ll grab you and start making out with you, and bingo, your problem is solved.”

Floréal _tsks._ “Look,” she says, and puts a comforting hand on his arm. “You know him better than anyone on the planet knows him, you must know what he likes to do. Pick something you both like and invite him. It’s really as simple as that. Don’t mention that it’s a date, just let it go on. At the end of the day, you’ll see what happens.”

“Take him to watch the stars with you somewhere or something,” Grantaire suggests. “He’ll eat up that romantic shit.”

Combeferre considers glaring at him, but he’s being helpful, in his own way.

“You’re a smart guy,” Floréal says. “You’ll think of something.” Then she launches into her spiel on how to care for a tattoo, even though he’s heard it four times already and this is the last tattoo in his second sleeve and he doesn’t know why she feels the need to go through it again. Grantaire nods along to every point, mocking her seriousness, until she kicks his chair and tells him to get out of her shop, and he leaves, laughing joyously and calling that he’ll bring her back lunch.

“This last year has been so good for him,” Combeferre says, and stands. Floréal smiles, faintly. 

“Yes, it has,” she says. “I’m proud of him. I’ll be proud of you, too, when you get your shit together.” She grins again, slightly wicked. “By the way, I wouldn’t discount his tip on sitting around with your shirt off. Because of me, you’ve got lovely arms.”

“Ha ha,” Combeferre says dryly, and leaves her shop.

-

Courfeyrac is walking down the street cradling a potted tomato plant in his arms, a present from Jehan, when he gets a text from Combeferre that’s just _come home? have to ask you about something_ and does a sort of impromptu happy dance in the middle of the sidewalk.

The whole rest of his walk is spent both wondering what Combeferre could want to ask him and wondering what he should name the tomato plant. Jehan said names are good for their self esteem, and Courfeyrac wants to be a good plant parent.

He turns and opens the apartment door, humming to himself, and almost has to turn and leave again, because Combeferre is standing there shirtless and carefully rubbing lotion for his tattoos onto his shoulders, and Courfeyrac would kind of want to die if he wasn’t already half certain he was in heaven.

“What,” Combeferre says, staring at him, “is _that,_ ” and Courfeyrac remembers that he has a tomato plant in his arms.

“Oh,” he says, lamely. “Jehan gave him to me.”

“Him,” Combeferre says.

“Well, I named him Collins,” Courfeyrac explains. This is a recent development, and he is actually mildly surprised by it, but he rolls with it nonetheless. “After Collins from Rent. He just seems like a Collins to me.” 

Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose. “You named the plant.”

Courfeyrac squinted at him. “Was that not clear? I thought it was clear.”

“And you brought the plant here,” Combeferre adds. “To our apartment.”

“What are you trying to imply with this,” Courfeyrac says, because honestly, of Combeferre thinks he can just stand there shirtless with his _gorgeous_ tattoos all over his arms and shoulders—well, that’s perfectly fine and it kind of makes Courfeyrac want to make a rule of there being no shirts in the apartment, ever. But if Combeferre thinks that his shirtless actions leave Courfeyrac with enough resident brainpower left over to figure out what is wrong with this plant, then he’s got another thing coming.

Combeferre sighs. “ _Enjolras_ lives here. We can’t have a _plant._ ”

Enjolras is famously terrible with all forms of life, including but not limited to plants, fish, and himself.

“Tell him to move out,” Courfeyrac suggests. _Never wear a shirt again._ “Collins needs me, Ferre.”

“Well,” Combeferre says, doubtfully, “we could—”

Suddenly they hear footsteps in the hall outside the apartment, and stare at each other in horror. Collins already seems to be wilting in Courfeyrac’s arms. (He is a _terrible_ plant parent.)

“Outside,” Combeferre says with urgency, tugging a shirt over his head. Courfeyrac resists the urge to hum a funeral march.

“What?” Courfeyrac says intelligently.

“The fire escape,” Combeferre says, and wrenches the window open. It is brilliant, when Courfeyrac stops to think about it. Enjolras never sets foot on the fire escape (he's made a lot of pointed comments about the rust and how fragile the whole thing looks) so it is the perfect place for Collins to live.

Courfeyrac hands Collins to Combeferre and tumbles through the window, taking Collins back and cradling him against his chest almost in one movement. Enjolras’s key jiggles in the lock, and Courfeyrac giggles, at the ridiculousness of it all.

Combeferre comes out after him, they set Collins carefully on the ground, and Combeferre slams the window shut.

Enjolras comes in, humming to himself, and peers out at them through the window.

“Don’t come out,” Courfeyrac calls. “You’ll kill Collins.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows.

“My tomato plant,” Courfeyrac clarifies. “He’s too young to die, Enj.”

Combeferre is shaking with laughter next to him, having finally seemed to succumb to the ridiculousness of the situation.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says. “Get off the fire escape, you’re going to fall.”

“We’re not going to _fall,”_ Courfeyrac says, “and anyway, Ferre would catch me, he knows I’m too beautiful to die.”

“Who does that leave to catch me?” Combeferre asks, still wheezing slightly with giggles. Courfeyrac shrugs.

“Collins, I guess. So anyway, what did you want to ask me?”

“Oh, right,” Combeferre says, and opens the window so that they can get back inside. “I was wondering if you want to come to the science museum with me tomorrow? They’re doing a thing about the dinosaurs.”

Courfeyrac is suddenly very grateful for the railing of the fire escape, because he slips, and Combeferre catches him.

“ _What,_ ” he says, trying to regain some dignity, and most likely failing. “Is that even a _question?_ It’s _dinosaurs._ ”

“Great,” Combeferre says, “my shift tomorrow ends at noon, so we can get lunch and then go?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac says, and is very proud of himself for not slipping again as he makes it into the house, but really, there are only so many surprises a guy can take, especially when those surprises come in the form of possibly-but-probably-not-dates.

-

“You guys are going on a _date_ ,” Cosette says, and squeals. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so _happy_ for you!”

“It’s not a date!” Courfeyrac yelps, and then lowers his voice when they get an ugly look from their manager. “It’s—it’s an _outing_.”

“Courf,” Cosette says, and raises her perfect eyebrows at him. “Remember when Marius and I went out for the first time? And I was really nervous because I didn’t think it was a date since we were just trying to find a couch for my apartment? Except it was, because Marius doesn’t know how to ask someone on a proper date?”

“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” Courfeyrac says, even though he totally does. 

Cosette just raises her beautiful, beautiful eyebrows at him again. “Courfeyrac.”

“Okay, okay fine, you might be right,” he says. “I just—I can’t get my hopes up, Cos. Not with Ferre. It means too much.”

She’s silent for a moment, and just watches him as he folds the clothes on the rack in an attempt to look busy, even though it’s the last ten minutes of the shift and they could really just chill out if they wanted to. 

“Do you ever think,” she says, delicately, “that you might be building this all up in your head a little too much?”

He laughs, and for the first time all morning, it’s not tinged with slight hysteria. 

“Every day,” he says.

It’s not as though he can stop, though. 

-

Combeferre gets off his internship at eleven thirty, and only has barely enough time to wave goodbye to Joly and rush home and change out of his scrubs and switch out his contacts for glasses before he’s running to the corner where he always meets Courfeyrac for lunch, and he feels oddly calm throughout all of it, like the rushing has stopped him from being nervous. But once he stops at the corner to catch his breath, the nerves come back full force, enough that he almost turns around to go home.

_It’s just Courfeyrac,_ he tells himself. _It’s going to be fine._

Logically, he knows he’s being ridiculous; that this outing with Courfeyrac is no different than any of the other times they’ve gone to the natural history musuem or gotten coffee after work or fallen asleep on top of each other on the couch, but that’s part of the problem, really. What if Courfeyrac doesn’t get it, that Combeferre wants this to be a date? A real date, not the movies they go to or the coffee they get? Or what if he does understand, and it just makes things awkward, and they aren’t the same anymore? And what if—

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says, and Combeferre snaps to attention.

“Hi,” he says, and Courfeyrac grins, his dimples standing out for a second against his cheeks. He looks amazing, and Combeferre bites back the urge to say so, and then realizes this is supposed to be a date anyway, so what the hell?

“You look nice today,” he says, aiming for casual but probably coming out breathless. He really does, though, in his favorite jean jacket with the sunflowers that Grantaire painted on the back. Combeferre feels a smile pull at his mouth, remembering last year when Grantaire presented him with the jacket at Christmas, _even though I don’t celebrate, when will you guys remember I was raised Jewish_ , and the look on Courfeyrac’s face when he put it on, like he never wanted to take it off. 

“Thanks!” Courfeyrac says, looking surprised but pleased, and Combeferre counts it as a success. 

“Come on,” he says, “I wanted to get a coffee before we went to see the dinosaurs.”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac says, nearly skipping along the road with how quickly he has to walk to keep up with Combeferre’s long legs. “I didn’t eat after work, Cosette was busy, so let’s stop and get food, too.”

“What do you want?”

“I want many things. A billion dollars comes to mind, also, the opportunity to have a pet without worrying that Enjolras is going to kill it somehow. Right now, though—” Courfeyrac scans the street, and grins, pointing at a cafe a few doors down. “That place looks good.” A worried look crosses his face. “I don’t have money, though.”

“I’ll pay.”

“No, you’re paying for the tickets to the museum,” Courfeyrac says, and worries his lip. “You can’t pay for everything.”

“I can and I will,” Combeferre says. “You need to eat something.”

“Says the guy who ate a whole box of Pop-Tarts and then nothing else for two days,” Courfeyrac snorts, but starts walking again.

“Those had blueberry in them, that’s fruit,” Combeferre protests, and Courfeyrac laughs, and shakes his head.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, shooting Combeferre a look so fond that it makes the breath catch in his throat.

-

“I’m just saying,” Courfeyrac says, later, as he’s eating pasta and Combeferre is drinking a ridiculously sugared cup of coffee. Everyone always thinks it’s Courf who’d drink the pumpkin spice lattes and the peppermint fudge mochas, but really he always gets his coffee with a bit of milk, nothing else. Combeferre always dumps in about ten packets of sugar. (Courfeyrac and Enjolras once caught him trying to put an energy drink in his coffee in order to stay awake for three straight days to study for his anatomy final. The resulting argument ended up banning energy drinks from the apartment. And they all think _Combeferre_ is the healthy one.)

“Yes,” Combeferre prompts him, a small smile on his face, and Courfeyrac realizes he’s lost his train of thought.

“The Loch Ness Monster _could_ be real,” he says, hoping he isn’t blushing. “I mean, aliens are definitely real, and I’m not sure about Bigfoot, but Nessie could be real.”

Combeferre hums thoughtfully, his hands curling around his cup. “Could be some kind of dinosaur,” he offers, warming to the idea. 

Courfeyrac nods, and stuffs more pasta in his mouth. “Yes! Exactly!”

Combeferre laughs and steals a forkful of pasta, and Courfeyrac’s heart swells up stupidly; it feels so irrationally date-like, sitting here and teasing each other and eating pasta and shit, now he’s thinking about that scene from the Lady and the Tramp and _now_ he’s thinking about that scene in regards to him and Combeferre and now he’s thinking about _kissing_ Combeferre, and that would be really great and it would probably taste like tomato sauce but it would be _great,_ and—

He realizes he’s messing with his spinner ring and tries to stop. _Get it together,_ he tells himself. _This isn’t even a date. This is just Ferre. You guys are always like this._

“Oh, shit,” Combeferre says, looking at the watch on his wrist, and seriously, who wears a real watch anymore? Only Combeferre, with his weird blend of responsibility combined with not knowing how to make pasta. Even Enjolras doesn’t wear a real watch. Courfeyrac’s heart lurches again, and it’s ridiculous.

“Are we late?” he asks instead, still spinning away on his ring.

“No, but they close at five today and I want to have the most time possible,” Combeferre says, and he looks so earnest and excited that Courfeyrac doesn’t point out that surely four hours is enough time to see the dinosaurs.

He stands, instead, and gestures grandly towards the door. “After you,” he says, and Combeferre beams, and they walk out together, and Courfeyrac twists his spinner ring and tells himself _this isn’t a date_ over and over again, even if he can’t quite seem to believe it.

-

They’re staring at the skeleton of an Anklyosaurus, which is posed as if its roaring, and Courfeyrac is staring deeply into its eye sockets as if it will reveal the secrets of the universe.

“What do you think Oscar looked like?” he says. 

“You think he was called Oscar?” Combeferre asks, and resists the urge to laugh. Courfeyrac has named people in paintings or statues before (usually in Snapchat captions), but never the skeletons, at least, not when he was here with Combeferre.

Courfeyrac nods. “He reminds me of Oscar the Grouch.”

Combeferre opens his mouth, then closes it again, deciding it’s best not to ask why. “Well, they were supposed to have spikes, and a tail like a club. It was a herbivore, though, so people don’t really know what those were used for. Maybe self-defense against larger dinosaurs.”

“I bet he was green,” Courfeyrac says decisively. His hair is still messy from all the wind outside, his brown eyes sparkling as he looks around. Combeferre can’t decide if his eyes are just reflecting the bright lights in the museum or if he’s happy. He hopes he’s happy. “Big guy had to hide in the trees, probably. Or in the grass. I bet he was green.”

“It’s more likely that he was brown,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac snorts and rolls his eyes.

“That’s _boring,_ Ferre. He might be old, but who says the guy had no fashion sense?” His eyes are definitely happy now, and Combeferre is struck with the desperate urge to kiss him; he looks so _happy,_ cheerful and laughing, because of something Combeferre did, something that was Combeferre’s idea. He swallows it down, and grins instead, and he probably looks desperately sappy, and Courfeyrac looks so happy it’s painful.

He’s already turned away by the time Combeferre has wrestled with the desire to kiss him and held it down, bouncing over to a triceratops and naming her Nicki. Combeferre can guess the connotation behind that one, but Courfeyrac dares him to say something with a single raised eyebrow, and Combeferre puts up his hands in surrender and laughs. The moment passes, like it always does. The urge to kiss Courfeyrac is so constant that Combeferre barely takes notice of it anymore, only remembering it when it flares up. 

Courfeyrac is taking another snapchat of Nicki, drawing a pink wig on her head and snickering, when he glances back at Combeferre. “Group pic.”

“Courf—”

“Come on, this is an outing, we need documentation,” Courfeyrac insists, holding up his phone and smiling hopefully and fuck, Combeferre has never been able to resist him when he smiles like that.

“Fine,” he says. “Only one.” Combeferre doesn’t like being in pictures, unless they’re with his friends. Courfeyrac beams, like he’s given him a million dollars. 

They stand with their backs to Nicki, and Combeferre doesn’t think about it too hard, he just leans into Courfeyrac and smiles.

He’s still not really sure how to say that this is a date, but besides the fact that Courfeyrac doesn’t know, he thinks it’s going well.

-

Combeferre is talking about the dinosaurs, very quickly and very enthusiastically, talking about things like how they cared for their young and traveled in packs like bison and he’s doing the thing where he forgets about his glasses because he’s too busy talking and waving his hands, and they fall down his nose, and Courfeyrac wants to push them back up. Combeferre doesn’t notice how his fingers twitch, how he goes back to the spinner ring even though he’s fine ADHD-wise right now, just for something to do.

He’s unfairly beautiful when he gets like this, all unhindered and excited, waving his hands and walking too fast and talking even faster, so that Courfeyrac’s mind spins wild to keep up. He doesn’t mind. He never minds. Combeferre hardly ever gets like this, all unembarrassed and full of excitement, and Courfeyrac loves it just like he loves all of him.

Suddenly, Combeferre stops in the middle of a sentence, and turns around to beam and him, unfairly bright. “I just remembered!” he says. “They have a show in the planetarium theater about the planets.”

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows.

“Including Pluto,” Combeferre adds, grinning even wider, if possible. 

“Then we have to go,” Courfeyrac says. “Lead the way.”

And Combeferre takes that literally, grabbing his hand and lacing their fingers together as he leads them to the auditorium. Which is okay, whatever, Courfeyrac can deal, he’s a grown-ass man, except Combeferre somehow forgets to let go, and it’s really lucky he’s not looking back because Courfeyrac is probably making the most terrified and elated face as he buys the tickets for the planetarium.

“I _really_ owe you money now,” Courfeyrac says, and Combeferre squeezes his hand, and butterflies erupt in his stomach. 

“It’s fine. You’ve paid for me before.”

“Okay,” Courfeyrac manages. through the butterflies, and Combeferre shoots him another one of those unfair grins and leads him into the dark planetarium.

The show is simple, made for kids, but Combeferre is bright-eyed and excited through the whole thing, and he never lets go of Courfeyrac’s hand, running his thumb over his palm sometimes, absently, and Courfeyrac weakly thinks _this isn’t a date,_ but he can’t stop _wishing,_ so hard it hurts.

-

Combeferre doesn’t actually realize he’s still holding Courfeyrac’s hand until halfway through the show, and by then it’s probably too late to back out, so he holds it and holds it, and it makes him giddy in a dizzy way, until Courf lets go to dash ahead of him, looking at some exhibit about bears, and then his hand just feels cold. 

“Next time,” Courfeyrac says, as they’re leaving the museum, “let’s go to the zoo, I want to see real bears,” and Combeferre wildly wonders if this means he _knows,_ if he’s saying they should go on _more_ dates, if it means _yes, I like you too._  

“We should go stargazing, too,” he says. “Next time there’s a meteor shower.”

Courfeyrac shoots him a quick look, something flashing across his face that he doesn’t recognize, before nodding, tentative; but not the kind of tentative that means he doesn’t want to, the kind that means he thinks he’s getting his hopes up for no reason.

And Combeferre—well, Combeferre _knows._

He doesn’t know how he’s not noticed until now. He feels kind of stupid, actually. But that doesn’t matter so much right now, what matters is that Courfeyrac wants this, wants to get his hopes up about the two of them going places together, and that’s all Combeferre really needs to know, and he reaches out and links their fingers together again. Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows, and looks down at their fingers wrapped together, and then looks back at Combeferre like he’s looking for a loophole.

“Ferre,” he says, and it’s almost a warning.

Combeferre squeezes his hand. “Something’s come to my attention.”

Courfeyrac just raises his eyebrows again.

“I like you,” Combeferre says, and doesn’t look at him, just stares at the street ahead of them and swings their joined hands. “Very much.”

Courfeyrac stops in his tracks.

-

_What._

It’s the only word that makes sense, kind of playing in endless loop in his head. Combeferre likes him? _Combeferre_ likes _him_? Combeferre _likes_ him? Even with different inflection, the words don’t really make sense.

“So was this a date or something?” Courfeyrac says, and wants to crawl in a hole. That is _not_ what you’re supposed to say when a guy says he likes you. You’d think this was his first time on a date. “I mean, you—all this—it was, like, intentional? I haven’t been imagining shit all day? I mean, you paid for lunch which is actually a whole weird misogyny thing, forget I said that, don’t tell Enjolras, but then you looked so happy and I wanted to kiss you _so bad_ and then we were in the dark and you were holding my hand and I just thought—”

“Can I kiss you?” Combeferre interrupts, and Courfeyrac swallows, hard.

“Can you—is that even a _question?”_ he says, helplessly. Combeferre reaches out and presses one hand to the side of his neck, thumb tracing Corfeyrac’s jaw, and his eyes are fixed on Courfeyrac’s mouth, and Courfeyrac gulps again.

“I had to be sure,” Combeferre says, and leans down. Courfeyrac stretches up on his tiptoes to meet him, and lets out a weak whimper when their lips meet. 

He’s imagined kissing Combeferre about—well, probably a million times, but no matter how cliche it sounds it’s _nothing_ compared to the real thing, because he’s close enough to smell the sharp mint of the shampoo Combeferre uses and he can feel the slight scrape of stubble on the corners of his mouth, and he can reach up and wrap his arms around Combeferre’s neck and mess up his perpetually neat hair, and feeling the way Combeferre’s arm around him tightens in response would be enough to send Courfeyrac reeling if he wasn’t so determined to not miss a moment of this, lest it never happen again.

He’d expected Combeferre to kiss softly, all smiles and small brushes of mouths, and maybe that will come later, but right now it’s desperate, with Combeferre almost completely picking him up off the ground, their mouths moving fast and probably sloppy, and suddenly Courfeyrac can feel the wall against his back, and they are making out against a _wall,_ holy _shit._ Holy shit. He’s dreaming, right? This is just a really fucking good dream? This can’t be real life.

Combeferre pulls back, and then they’re just both standing there, breathing hard, eyes closed. Courfeyrac almost doesn’t want to move, in case it was some bout of temporary insanity, and Combeferre will suddenly say something like _oh, wait, never mind, let’s forget this ever happened._ He couldn’t take that. He would _literally_ explode.

Then he feels Combeferre’s mouth, pressing softly against the edge of his, like a whisper, like a question. 

“Hey,” he says, and Courfeyrac squeezes his eyes shut harder, just for a second, then opens them to find that Combeferre is pulling away. But he reaches out, and grabs onto Combeferre’s shirt; he doesn’t know what to do, he only knows he can’t fuck this up, can’t let Combeferre leave now, not when they just—

“You kissed me,” he says, and tries to sort out the ridiculous fumbling in his head. 

“Yes,” Combeferre says, albeit cautiously. 

“And—” He doesn’t know what to add, after that. “You _like_ me?”

“That was the implication,” Combeferre says, and he sounds nervous, shifting from foot to foot. “I—do you not—”

“Holy mother of fuck,” Courfeyrac says. “You like me.”

“Courfeyrac?”

“I’ve been pining all this time over _nothing,”_ Courfeyrac grumbles. “And I kept _complaining_ to Marius and Jehan and Enjolras and holy shit, they’re going to have bets on me, _I’m going to make Marius lose a bet—_ ”

“I’m going to take this to mean you like me too,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac stutters, and gapes at him.

“Did you not know that?” he says. “I thought you must have known that.”

Combeferre just tilts his head and looks at him.

“Oh my god,” Courfeyrac says, a tinge of exasperation in his voice. “I know your coffee order, I’m always leaving sticky notes in your textbooks to remind you to eat and drink, your _tattoos—_ ”

He makes a strangled noise when Combeferre cuts him off with another kiss.

“My tattoos,” Combeferre says, slightly breathlessly, his mouth an inch from Courfeyrac’s. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Courfeyrc says. “Your _arms,_ Ferre, god, your _hands,_ it was hard enough not to stare at you _before_ and now—”

He lunges up and kisses him again, deciding he can’t explain it in words, it’s not worth it to try, and Combeferre presses in close again, and Courfeyrac wonders distantly if Combeferre is going to pick him up, because he thinks he might die right here and now if that happens, and—

“Stop thinking,” Combeferre says, the words a whisper against Courfeyrac’s cheek. His eyes are kind, though, and he waits a second, letting Courfeyrac get his thoughts in order.

“This was a date,” Courfeyrac says.

“Yes.”

“Whose idea?”

“You don’t think it could have been my idea?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “You were scared,” he says. “I was scared too, that’s how I knew.”

Combeferre smiles, and rests his cheek on the top of Courfeyrac’s head. “It was Grantaire’s idea,” he says. “And Floréal’s. A joint effort.” 

They aren’t kissing anymore, the mood for that is gone, mellowed into something a little more gentle. Courfeyrac winds their fingers together, and just like earlier, it sends butterflies through his stomach. “Ferre,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“This was a really good date.”

He feels a smile in his hair. “Then you won’t be opposed to more dates?”

“I am the _opposite_ of opposed.”

“Good.”

-

The walk home is dizzy and often paused to kiss against a wall or two, but they return home with bitten lips, clutching each other’s hands, and Enjolras smiles approvingly before asking if they want to order pizza, and leaves that as the only hint of his delight for them, but they can both see it, bubbling under the surface. 

He must text Grantaire about it, though, because they get about seven _congratulations_ texts each within five minutes. 

Courfeyrac replies to them all with a winking emoji, and Combeferre loves him, he really, really does.

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so i know this was written much, much later than i hoped, but i did finally finish it, so that's the important thing? i hope? time really go away from me, i was working a _lot_ this summer. but i'm really pleased with the end result of this fic, even if it's basically just two nerds going on a dorky museum date. :^)


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